Sons of North America
by Alurax
Summary: Born through violence, the conception and early lives of the twins of North America were very hard. Abandonment, blood, war. The only highlight for these little ones can only be the two rival nations, who can barely stop fighting long enough to notice their pain.


Long ago. Far longer than any others ever knew, there lived a spirited, vibrant nation. No one ever knew her true name. Only referring to her by whatever they felt fit best. Red-skin. Savage. Indian.

She never cared much for them to know who she truly was. Only desiring to set the record straight. If they were to call her by anything, it should be Native America. She may not be the oldest, but would not allow them to degrade her, by referencing such diminutive terms. She wanted them all to know, that she was there first.

Native America loved adventure, enjoying even the simple bliss of running free over her continent. Although, as all good things, that care-free life came to a brutal end, all too quickly.

Her first visit from any outside nations was a strong, brash man by the name of Norway. Instantly, this man fascinated her. He was a very imposing presence. Plates of metal lined his fur clothing, and large horns stood tall from his thick helmet. There was a spark in his eyes that hungered for adventure and danger... but there was a brutal side to him, as well.

He merely saw her as a new land, and nothing more. Ravishing and dominating the land, once his sights were set upon her. It seemed as though this stranger's only desire was to mark his new discovery for his own.

Then he left.

As suddenly as he had appeared, Norway left without a second thought to the land he had claimed.

Soon, Native America gave birth to a son. A sweet child with bright violet eyes, and a warm smile. He was one of the most precious beings she had ever seen... how she hated him. She desperately wished for this to not be so, but every time Native America looked at her son, she couldn't stop the boiling hatred that swelled within her. Given the violent nature of his conception all she saw was that horrible man, every time she gazed upon him.

And so, she left him behind. Looking for a new life further south. However, there was still a desire to protect him. That annoying instinct that told her to protect this small boy, so she searched for somewhere to tuck him away. Out of sight, out of reach of anything. She found a small cave, and inserted the child into a nook, wrapping him in a blanket. Far away from the icy tundra that awaited outside. For many years, the child slept. Abandoned, and unable to develop, without the guidance of an older nation.

Until the birth of his brother.

Native America had gone out and built herself back up. Developed her own culture, and her own life. Living off the fat of the land. She developed the ability to commune with her surroundings, and they thanked her kindness, but providing her with sustenance. Food and friendship, and an overall glorious way of life.

But, once again, her life was turned upside down by more travelers. Brutal savages who held weapons vastly superior to her own. Travelers wishing to explore new reaches of the world, not caring who got in their way. She was quickly overpowered again. Her lands taken over by these new strangers. No matter how hard she struggled, there was no way to keep him out. This new nation was just too powerful, and she was forced to give birth to a second son. Enraged, by her weakness, all protective instincts were completely overshadowed by her hatred towards this new atrocity, and the men that did this to her. She dropped her new son in the river, and crawled off somewhere... injured, broken, and swearing she would find a way to make them pay for the humiliation she had suffered.

The second son managed to make his way onto shore. He crawled up onto the bank, spitting up water, and gasping for air. Even in his brief life, he had developed faster than his older brother. Not much more, but enough where he was able to fend for himself. Forced to get stronger to find his own way. The boy raised his head, looking out at the world he was born into. Unsure. But determined to face it head on.

Over the next few years, he wandered the landscape. Unable to grow or mature... only able to get stronger. As strong as he needed to survive. Little did he know that others had become aware of his presence. Before he knew it, three nations, far superior than himself had discovered him. Each wishing to take control of this young, underdeveloped nation, so as to expand their own power.

"Hello there." The nation with blonde hair, and large eyebrows smiled warmly down at him. "My name is England. What's yours?"

Name? He hadn't though about that. His mind searched around for anything that could partially resemble any kind of identification. The only thing that came to mind was a woman. A vague memory of someone he assumed to be his mother. The small boy puffed out his chest, looking the other nation square into his deep green eyes. "America."

England's expression instantly fell. That name sounded awfully familiar. Could this boy possibly belong to her? "I don't believe this." England straightened up, eyes still fixed on the boy, taking in his features and trying to fit the pieces together. As the reality of it hit him, a smile spread across his face. "This boy is my son."

Another nearby nation, even older than England, grabbed his shoulder, and jerked him back, growling, "What makes joo theenk 'e eez your son?"

England knocked his hand off, meeting his glare. "I just know, alright." His eyes diverted towards America, feeling a small hinge of guilt. "I knew his mother."

"Well, I knew 'er as well. Per'aps I am zee fazer."

"In your dreams, Frenchy. He looks nothing like you."

"'E does not resemble joo eizer." France smirked. "Although, Amerique should be thankful to not 'ave zat brow."

"He has my skin and hair." England growled, eyes flicking between France and America sadly. "His features are his mother's."

"He kind of looks like me." The third nation had crept closer to America, smiling warmly at him. "Don't you think?"

"Don't be ridiculous." France snorted, folding his arms across his chest. "Zat boy eez obviously mine. Why do joo theenk 'e ees so beautiful?"

"Don't be demented." England growled, stepping in front of France. He had started for the boy, and England shoved him back. "America is my son, and I'm not going to let you put your filthy froggy hands on him."

France grabbed the front of England's shirt, dragging him closer viciously. "'E eez my son, and I will no let joo say ozerwise."

America watched in confusion, as the two nations argued over who would take him in. He wasn't sure why it was so important. His own mother had abandoned him, why would they care enough to fight for him?

Despite other nations wanting to get involved, the custody battle was purely a two-way street. Unlike Norway, both fought hard for their self-proclaimed son. Determined to take America, no matter what the cost. No other could raise him properly.

The battle was horrible. Huge losses from both sides. Each covered in blood and bruises. Both had, at some point, found times to come and see him... but that had stopped. The more they fought, the less time they really had for him. Even more so, they were more likely to kill each other, in the battle. Then what? If they both died, who would raise him?

America could do nothing more than sit on the hillside, watching the brutal brawl. Tears coated his face, hands over his ears to try and block out the sounds of war. "Stop it." He whispered, his entire body starting to shake. "Just stop."

The swords continued to clang, through the air, matched paces. Each finding opportunities to slice into the other. Blood loss, and fatigue. It would end soon, but who would it be?

"Please, stop." America closed his eyes against the battle. "Stop fighting."

All at once, the clangs were cut off, by a loud scream. America gasped, his eyes springing open to see England laying on the ground. He was still alive, but his body shook, blood coating an arm over his stomach. France was standing over him, holding the tip of his sword, to his throat. Immediately, America shot to his feet. "England?"

His mind flashed back to the time he first met him. The way England looked at him. Sizing up his appearance, and the warm smile that crossed his face when he realized who he was. A fatherly smile, that he'd never seen from France. England had even come to visit him a lot more. To play, or help him with something, whatever. England was always there, and he was grateful. America ran down the side of the hill. He didn't care who his father was, anymore. He didn't even care how hard France had been fighting for him. He made his decision. He wanted England, and he sure as hell wasn't going to let him die.

"STOP!" America cried, running out onto the battle field. Just as France had raised his sword, America threw himself over England's weakened body. Too little too late, did France realize this action, the sword slicing deep into the boy's back. America screamed, falling onto the blood soaked battlefield.

"AMERICA!" England screeched, scooping America up, and cradled the small frame in his arms. "America? America, please say something." He cried, hysterically.

France watched them, horrified at what he'd done, his sword splashing into the mud. "Amerique, non."

By now, England was shaking the young nation, rocking him in his arms. "America. Look at me. Please, wake up. Don't die. Open your eyes, don't die, please. America, wake up!" When he didn't respond, England's rage flared again, up towards France. "This is all your fault!"

France froze, the accusation piercing his chest. "What? N-non, I didn't mean."

"Are you happy now!" England screamed. "If you had just stepped aside, none of this would have happened."

"Please, stop fighting." America sighed, his eyes gently trying to open.

"America."

"Dieu merci." France sighed in relief, falling to his knees, next to them, hand coming up to brush America's hair. Both of the older nation's eyes were now flooded with tears.

"America, are you ok?" England gasped, desperately.

"I'm ok." America croaked, his hands twisting into the fabric of England's uniform. "Just stop fighting." He curled up further, into England's arms, dozing off again. "Please, Dad." His voice faded long after his eyes closed. "Stop."

England squeezed him tighter, his gaze drifting up to meet France's eyes. They were both at fault, and they knew it. It was no use fighting anymore. They would only cause him to suffer further. Besides... America made his choice. There was no longer a reason.

France's eyes landed back onto America's docile face. His hand brushed through his hair again. "Take care of 'im Angleterre."

"I will."

Finally, France stood, and walked away, leaving England to kneel in the middle of the abandoned battlefield, clutching his unconscious son close to his chest.

xXx

France wandered off on his own, silently lamenting his loss. He had lost America, and now that they were together, England would be too strong for him to try again. The young nation was now too far out of reach. France shivered against the winds, as they kicked up snow around him. He slumped into the snow, clutching his arms around himself. It was very cold, what was he even doing up here? He had thought, that with Spain and England occupying the rest of the continent, then this was the only place he could go, but there was nothing here. How could there possibly be anything in this desolate wasteland? There was nothing for him here. There was nothing for him, anywhere.

France decided to take refuge in a nearby cave, deciding to wait out the storm. He started a small fire, waving his hands over the flame to try and warm his numb fingers. Drawing his knees up, France sighed in exhaustion, watching the vapor of his breath disperse into the air. "Now what do I do?"

As if in some kind of response, France heard a small noise, from the back of the cave. He jumped to his feet, readying himself for a fight. "Show yourself." There wasn't a voice, but the sound identified itself as a weak cough. France sheathed his sword and made his way towards the sound. The coughing faded into a groan as France found the source. A small pile of fabric, in the back of the cave, was wiggling. "Qu'est-ce que c'est?" He knelt down, unwrapping the folds of blanket to reveal a baby.

The baby rubbed his tired eyes, and started crying. "Oh, non." France crooned, scooping the baby into his arms. He bounced the child softly, shushing him. "It's ok, mon t'aime. It weel alright." He looked around, eyes falling back to the wall of snow. "What are joo doing een a place like zis?" His gaze fell back to the child, rubbing the small tuft of hair. "Are joo all alone, too?"

The baby stopped crying, and looked up at him, his tiny lips still quivering. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the resemblance was uncanny. Even though his eyes were a slightly different color, the shape was the same as America. Even the small tuft of hair on the top of his head was the same. "Sweet child." His hand came around the back of his hair. "Joo weel no longer be alone. I weel take care of joo." He drew him closer, lips brushing against his forehead. "Mon petite, le Canada."

**##**

**AN: So, my brain was trying to make sense out of Canada and America being twins, and not Italy and Romano. There is some real strangeness behind this considering Canada was discovered by the Vikings (Vikings discovered everything.) and America was discovered much much later... and then arose this.  
**

**My only logic is that nothing was really done with Canada until they discovered America, and so they started to develop around the same time. (America is largely known as the older because of his quick development.) Granted, it did seem like America was a lot older in this, but he was still very underdeveloped, and rather small. at least in my mind. Still can't make sense for the Italies though, so c'est la vie. (I've also come to the conclusion that French is annoyingly strange.)  
**

**At first, when this developed, my brain was telling me to take it all the way to the revolution, but... yea, no. Not only do I not have the time, but I also don't have the historical knowledge to do such things. It might, one day, but as it stands, this it going to be a oneshot. hope ya like. XD  
**


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